Tuesday 200 — #77

Parker was trained to be practical. Hence his dumbfounded dismay upon establishing himself enamoured with Overnight Guest. Backhanding away a burgeoning tear, he murmured something about hay fever, noted the lad’s number and perfunctorily promised “we’ll be in touch.”

It wasn’t the first friend he’d found while Husband traveled. But there were rules to be followed, for practicality’s sake, such as crossing one’s fingers during the “we’ll be in touch.”

What compelled Parker and OG to harbor hopes with each other? Why did Parker share secret lyrics he’d written, a hobby which Husband decreed simply impractical more than a decade ago.

“Emo for homos,” OG giggled. “It’s queemo.” He blanketed himself around Parker, who sensed it not practical to feel nineteen again.

And yet.

So unpractical, breaking his cross-fingered unpromise and staying in touch — emails, sheet music, stanzas from his soul. OG grew attached. Parker reverted to practicality, blanking the blanket till he disappeared.

Several weeks later Husband came home early, holding a stack of mail and asking “Who’s Hugh?”

Parker practically pooped his Prada pants. OG’s real name. “Who?”

“Some stooge sent these shitty songs with a note saying since you were ignoring him, perhaps I could help.”

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